


It's A Great Pumpkin, Jughead Jones

by Alisonrutherford



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Betty and Jug are two sweet tiny babies, Falling In Love, October Fic, Pre-Relationship, Pumpkins, are we dating?, fluff on fluff on fluff, pumpkin patch adventure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-06 06:31:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alisonrutherford/pseuds/Alisonrutherford
Summary: “Jughead Jones, can we please keep the sarcasm to a minimum today? You’re going to ruin pumpkin patch day for me.” Her voice is muffled but the unmistakable exasperation in her tone makes his lips twitch into a crooked smile as he rounds the bales.For a split second he just breathes her in, crouched over a perfectly rounded pumpkin at least twice the size of every other article of harvest littering not only the Fall display, but the aisles and aisles surrounding them. Stray hairs are escaping in wisps from her slicked back ponytail as her face contorts in concentration, contemplating how best to maneuver the pumpkin into their green wagon.It’s damn near the most adorable thing he’s ever seen, and not for the first time - even today - his heart picks up its rhythm. He swallows thickly, and tries to abate the flush crawling up his neck. "Here, let me."ORJughead and Betty go to a pumpkin patch.





	1. Please Juggie?

**Author's Note:**

> Happy October, you guys! Hopefully this little multi-part drabble will be a fun read. Find me on Tumblr @alisoncollis.

 

**10/15**

 

**9:00 am**

 

_Our story is about a town, a small town…_

 

He pauses with his fingers poised over the keyboard of his well-worn laptop waiting for the next words to formulate and spill out onto the page. Taking a sip of his third cup of now tepid black coffee, he clicks out a sentence.

 

_…where nothing ever fucking happens._

 

Jughead groans and hammers the backspace key with more force than he intends to. Writer’s block, he’s come to realize, is a very real, very crippling disease (emotionally that is, his extremities are still fully functioning). A disease that’s riddled his brain for weeks now, seeping into its nooks and crannies, debilitating his creativity. Admittedly, he _has_ been a little distracted, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s always been able to write, and regardless of the relentless image of a certain blonde in knee-high boots and form fitting jeans that hug her hips and thighs  _just so_ invading his thoughts _,_ that fact has never wavered.   

 

The expanse of white on his screen, glaring at him in the morning light filtering through one of his trailer’s two windows, begs to differ, however, and he has the strong desire to hurl something very tangible straight into the intangible _wall_ in his mind.  

  


It’s early, at least early by _his_ standards according to the flashing 9:00 am on the oven clock, but sleep has, yet again, eluded him. Jughead’s never really been one to _need_ a full eight hours, but if the deep purple color lining the under part of his eyes indicates anything, it’s that he needs more than the four or five hours he usually acquires.

 

Bringing his hand to the back of his neck, he rolls it from side to side. A desperate attempt to get the crick to subside, an unfortunate side effect of falling asleep on the couch the previous evening while marathoning Vincent Price movies on Netflix. _Worth it,_ he thinks, remembering Frederick Loren passing out pistols to all of his guests before he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

As he hears a distinct crack from the tiny bones popping back into place, a gentle chirp rings out from his phone, face-down, on the coffee table.

 

He’s half-tempted to leave it and _try_ desperately to type out something that’s, well, not a complete pile of shit. Besides the fact that it’s 9 am on a _Saturday_ , no one ever texts him unless it’s bad news. Well, that’s a lie. No one _used to_ text him. But that’s primarily because the people that do, _know_ him.  They know he’s not a ‘texter’ as a general rule, so other than the occasional ‘Arkham City?’ message from Archie or ‘Pop’s?’ from Betty, his phone pretty much goes unused.

 

Correction, _went_ unused. It’s borderline exhausted from overuse now. With every ding or notification, Jughead swears it lets out a sigh of exasperation, but he can’t bring himself to care.

 

Like some weird Pavlovian experiment gone painstakingly against his inherent nature to ignore his phone, when it dings, he thinks _Betty._ Which in turn makes him swiftly and decisively reach for a device he used to hate.

 

He’s not really sure _how_ or why things went from friendzone (aka intermittent texting) to something, maybe-kinda more with Betty (all-day, everyday texting). Things are still a little fuzzy at best.  If he’s to be completely honest, he’s fucking confused. There’s been a noticeable _shift_ with his best friend, and Riverdale’s resident Grace Kelly, but he’s not entirely sure _why_.

 

For his part, being in love with Betty Cooper was a given. A, not-entirely-annoying, hum under the surface that he’s learned to ignore. But it was never meant to be reciprocated. THAT was the one certainty in his life the he could count on more than anything else. When that started showing cracks, everything else began to crumble.

 

It started out simple, barely noticeable.

 

When they went to Pop’s for burgers, she’d started sliding next to him instead of across.  At first he chalked it up to a coincidence. Maybe there was a crack in the red vinyl that scratched the back of her thighs, maybe the seat was wet and she didn’t want her jeans damp.

 

But then, a month ago, her fingers grazed his as she reached for a fry, and she didn’t pull away quickly as If she’d been burned. Instead, she _actually_ scooted the tiniest bit closer.

 

Jughead distinctly remembers the red that flooded her cheeks, and the blush that crept onto his face in response to hers. HE, Jughead Jones, keeper of the fries, wearer of all things plaid, made _Betty Cooper_ blush.  She slid the remainder of her milkshake across the polished Formica tabletop and the blood coursing through his veins felt like molasses. The heaviness in his body caused his heart to speed up and slowdown in stride.

 

Maybe it didn’t mean anything. He’s _still_ trying to decipher if it meant anything. There were no words to accompany the gesture and to an outsider, a half-empty milkshake shared between two friends would be simple and unassuming. But to him, it was the first crack that caused the earth to shift.

 

And a large part of that shift resulted in him shuffling into the AT&T store in Greendale, pulling his beanie down over his ears to hide his embarrassment, and asking a girl who popped her gum entirely too loud to increase his phone plan to one with unlimited texting and data.

 

Because seemingly out of nowhere, they started texting everyday. He began looking forward to the goodnight texts. He looked forward, even more so, to the ‘good morning, Betts’ texts that he finally felt comfortable enough to send without it being weird.

 

The conversations between them never stopped or started, they just _happened. Day in, Day out._

 

Hence, he has no choice but to pick up his phone. At 9 am. On a _Saturday._    

 

Turning it over, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as a text winks at him beneath a familiar name. _God, what’s wrong with him? He’s become THAT guy._    

 

**_Feeling up for an adventure?_ **

 

It’s cryptic, with no pretext as per usual. And although a draft seeps underneath the door to the trailer, he’s filled with a warmth that travels from his toes to his fingertips.

 

Adjusting into a more comfortable position on the worn polyester of his dad’s couch, he slides his computer closed and sits it beside him on the yellow cushion.

 

**_Depends on what you had in mind, Cooper._ **

Jughead can almost visualize his blonde best friend half a town away, thumbs hovering over her iPhone, the plump flesh of her bottom lip trapped by her teeth.

 

**_Don’t you trust me?_ **

 

There’s no good way to answer a question like that, Jughead _knows this._

 

He fights back the smile that now _completely_ threatens to overtake his mouth even though no one is around to see it. FP (if he was awake at this ungodly hour, which of course he is not) would be too inebriated to comment on the change in emotion anyway. Probably would mistake the jarring motion of Jughead’s lips as the unfortunate double vision that accompanies one too many shots of Old Charter.

 

**_She asks sweetly, as she unloads the most loaded of questions._ **

 

A set of ellipses pops up, disappears, and then reappears and he can almost _feel_ Betty rolling her eyes across town in her fluffy pink palace of a bedroom.

 

**_Evasiveness is unbecoming, Jones. Anyway, that’s not an answer._ **

 

His smile widens as his thumbs move back and forth across the screen.

 

**_Well give me a more reasonable question Betts._ **

 

He doesn’t have to wait long for her to respond.

 

**_Ok, here’s a question. What’s your stance on bribery?_ **

 

**_As an institution, I’m firmly against the concept. But for you….I might be persuaded. But it has to be something really, really worthwhile._ **

 

Jughead anticipates an obligatory ‘ _touché, Jug’_ or some sort of continuation to their repartee as per usual _,_ instead, she shoots back two succinct words. Two piercing fangs directly into the soft material of his heart.

 

**_Please Juggie_ **

 

If it isn’t bad enough that her eyes are the color of kryptonite, her words possess the power to instill weakness in him, similarly to another raven-haired man with an S plastered across his chest.  

 

 _Coercion,_ he thinks as he sinks down into the scratchy material of the sofa and stares at the words through the crack splintering his screen. If he were a stronger man, her words wouldn’t have an effect on him. But as he lets out a deafening sigh, he realizes he’s never been a strong enough man when it comes to Betty Cooper. And oddly, the weakness is kind of comforting.

 

**_Ugh FINE. But you owe me Cooper._ **

 

Five minutes pass without an answer and he almost feels like she was just testing him. The whole last month feels like a test anyway, or at the very least a joke that he’s been relegated the butt of. But Betty would _never_. At least he hopes she would never... A soft rap on the door jerks his attention. He throws his legs over the side of the couch and feels the distinct cold air tickle the bottom of his feet through his novelty pumpkin socks.

 

Jughead knows before he answers the door who’s on the other side. Despite the fact that it takes approximately 12 minutes from her front door to his by car, 32 by foot (not that he’s counted), only one person knocks that delicately on a door that’s usually pounded on by drunken locals looking for his dad. Which means, she was already halfway to his house when she texted him.

 

“Well, well. Fancy meeting you here.”

 

Her face lights up when he opens the door, and with something he likes to call _“Cooper optimism,”_ (because there is no other acceptable description for it), demurely shakes a Tupperware container in his direction. A black piece of fabric is draped over her arm, he notes, but all of his concentration is focused squarely on the baked goods.  

 

“I come bearing bribes, as promised.”  

 _Fucking cookies_ , he thinks, as she pushes past him into the entryway of the trailer, opening the lid to allow the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies to permeate the air.  

 

As if her very _being_ in of itself isn’t enticement enough - with her silky blonde hair and pouty lips that most likely taste like strawberries or mangos or some other variation of tempting fruit ( _not that he’s thought about it),_ and her mind, _God_ , her mind. _Yeah_ , as if that wasn’t enough, she baked him cookies.  _Homemade_ cookies with tiny little morsels of chocolate heaven surrounded by a brown sugary dough.

 

Might as well have been an arrow straight through his Achilles’ heel.

 

“You _DO_ realize I already said yes, right? You don’t actually have to butter me up.” Jughead spouts (even though he’s more than happy to be buttered in any shape, form, fashion by one Betty Cooper), shoving his hand into the container and pulling out a cookie to take a bite. “Also, I know you were already on your way here, which was very presumptuous of you, if I do say so myself. Oh my gaw-” He moans into the bite as crumbs fall down his chin.

 

She chuckles, “good, right?”

 

Placing the container on the kitchen table, she turns and begins to unbutton her peacoat.

 

“I was actually already outside, I just wanted to wait a few minutes so as not to seem too eager. And this favor actually has a few, um, sub-favors-” She starts, undoing the last button and peeling the coat from her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground in a puddle at her feet.

 

Jughead’s brow furrows in confusion as he dusts crumbs off the front of his t-shirt, staring at the bottom lip that’s now trapped under her front teeth. Wanting nothing more than to close the 3 feet between them to _untrap_ that lip, realization of what she’s saying doesn’t set in right away.

 

“Please, Juggie?”

 

His brain short circuits at her words, but as she plays with the hem of her shirt, his gaze finally travels from the lip to her top. _Then_ it dawns on him.  He glances between the black fabric now laying on the table, back to her shirt, then back and starts shaking his head furiously.

 

“No. no. no. no. Hard pass.”

 

Her exuberant smile falters briefly, and he wants to do _anything_ to put it back. Anything but what she’s asking.

 

“I swear, you’ll like it, Jug.”

 

 _This_ makes him let out a hollow laugh. “Funny, I never took you for a liar, Elizabeth Cooper.”

 

“And I never took you for a coward, Forsythe Jones.” She rebounds without pause, licking her lips and crossing her arms over her chest.

 

“Well I guess you got me there.” He responds, face somewhere between amusement and resolve.

 

He loves this - their effortless banter. And it takes 3.5 seconds for his shoulders to relax and the crease between his brows to soften.  

 

“ _Fine_ ,” He huffs, snatching the black cotton off the table and tugging his shirt off in one swift motion. He tries not to notice her eyes trailing the lines of his tank top across his chest and abdomen, smirking to himself as he walks past her to pad down the hallway to his room.

 

“Oh and Juggie -” She yells from the living room as he tugs off his jeans to put on a fresh pair, “-We’re going to need to borrow your truck.”   

 

 _There better be a lot of fucking cookies in that container,_ he thinks, looking down at his pumpkin socks.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Sweetwater Pumpkin Patch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a 3-4 part now that I’ve started to gain momentum. I hope you guys like all the fall fluff! Also, super unbeta'd, so please excuse the mistakes.

 

 

**10/15**

 

**10:15 am**

 

Jughead remembers the drive, though most of it’s a blur. The subtle curves of Riverdale’s back roads as Betty’s knees bounced excitedly in the passenger seat, pointing for him to turn _left_ here and _right_ there. Like he hasn’t lived in Riverdale his entire life too. (To be fair though, he had no idea where they were going, so her giving directions wasn’t entirely off-base, but still. He knows his way around.)

 

_Regardless._

 

The residual beads of sweat are still fresh on his palms from the more _vivid_ parts between there and here. In which, after drying off on the barely functioning AC blowing full blast and wiping along the denim of his pant leg for good measure, he laid his hand, palm face-up (in a bold move), on the seat between them.

 

His fingers twitched and his nerves bounced like a pinball from end to end in his body, with nothing to do but to stare straight ahead with one hand in the wheel and the other, jostling slightly from the potholes on the road, curled in invitation beside him.

 

Jughead remembers all of that. And he DEFINITELY remembers Betty (in an equally bold move on her part) using a single finger to trace the lines on his palm back and forth absentmindedly as she smiled sweetly out the window. It tickled, especially when she made long, languid strokes from his wrist to the tip of his middle finger, flattening out his hand against the worn leather seat. And despite the fact that both of their hands were a little damp, a tingle of static from her fingertip made each individual hair on his body stand on end.

 

No, that was crystal clear – dizzyingly clear.  Clear enough to see right through, in fact. Like a glass vase just waiting to be tipped over and shattered on the ground.    

 

What’s muddled is how he’s found himself crammed into an edited version of one of those awful family or couple photos in an autumn setting. The ones with contrived happiness amongst a backdrop of vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges. Where everything appears sharp in the middle and blurred around the edges. Fake little things people frame and put on their mantels to prove they have a perfect life when guests come over.  

 

 _That_ he doesn’t understand.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

They’d driven 10 miles outside the city limits of Riverdale before Betty told him to take a final right down Old Mill lane. He did as told, throwing dust and gravel in the air for another half mile before easing off the gas a little. She started humming excitedly and, in turn, he reached quickly with his driving hand (he wouldn’t dare use the other one) to turn down _Serial_ on his phone. His truck was too old to have an auxiliary port or bluetooth, so he settled for placing it between them on the dash, speaker turned up as loud as it would go.

 

Jughead was so pre-occupied with Adnan’s story ( _did he do it, did he not?)_ and the feel of Betty’s warm hand, still hovering over his, that he almost missed the dirt driveway she directed him to.

A wooden sign with a hand-painted _Sweetwater Pumpkin Patch_ across it in large-letter white paint hung from a post shoved into the ground.

 

They both spotted it at the same time and when Betty squealed, “We’re here!” he muttered “ _goddamnit”_ under his breath.

 

She yanked her hand away, and Jughead tried his best to mask the look of disappointment that flashed across his face as he wiped his palm on the seat and returned it to the wheel.

 

It must have just been the excitement of the day. That’s all it was. And he ruined it.

 

They pulled into an empty space, sandwiched between a bright blue station wagon and some sort of grey sedan that he only noticed due to the length of time he spent just _sitting_ there after killing the ignition.

 

Well, it wasn’t the _worst_ thing he could think of as far as surprises went. Life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit flashed into his mind as he pressed pause on his phone.

Betty looked at him sheepishly with wide eyes, raising her shoulders as if to say both _sorry_ and _I’m not the least bit sorry_ at the same time.

 

“Surprise.” The ‘ _ise’_ going up at the end, questioningly.

 

“Oh is it _?_ ” He queried with a tone that was meant to be teasing but came out slightly venomous. The sting of her pulling her hand away must have hurt more than he realized, and her face fell ever so slightly in tandem with his words.

 

_God why did he have to be such an asshole._

 

Betty quickly recovered, as was the Cooper way, shaking off his negative chakras like a dog after a bath.

 

It’s one of the things he loves most about her. Loves and hates. She doesn’t let his negativity seep into her subconscious like the rest of the world does. It challenges instead of defeats her. He hates it because she shouldn’t have to deal with it _at all_.  

 

“Do you hate me?”

 

Her voice was sweet and sad and as his heart splintered apart for being the _cause_ of that voice, he wished desperately for a time machine if only to rewind those last 20 seconds.

 

“Would you make me do this if I said yes?” This time his tone hit the mark, sardonic, completely in jest. Hating her being the most absurd notion in the world.

 

She let out a relieved sigh and placed a comforting hand on his knee. It was warm and he felt his whole body melt on an exhale.

 

“Oh come on, Jug. Don’t pretend this isn’t the most fun you’re going to have today.” She teased in complete recovery, pulling her hand back to unbuckle her seatbelt.

 

“You mean with my clothes on, right?”

 

He blurted it out without thinking and immediately wanted to kick his own ass for delivering such a clichéd Archie Andrew’s line. But when Betty ducked her chin into her coat and radiated a pink glow as she smiled bashfully, he decided not to take it back.

 

Heart pounding, he cleared his throat and looked around at the fabricated wholesomeness before them. “Sooo..this is what a batch of cookies buys you nowadays, huh?”

 

“Among other things.”

 

Betty winked, sliding out and shutting the door with an extra amount of _omph_ . She swayed her hips a little _too_ much to be coincidence as she peered over her shoulder in front of the truck.

 

“You coming,” she mouthed, her eyes alight with challenge.

 

 _This girl,_ he thought before slamming the door and falling in step beside her.     

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  


_Sweetwater. Pumpkin. Patch._

 

Three words that can suck the soul from a man’s body and spit it on the ground like a chewed up wad of gum.

 

Maybe that’s a bit dramatic. But it’s not exactly _unfounded._ Certainly not as Jughead gazes over rows upon rows of pumpkins and gourds laying in neat little piles that somehow magically replenish themselves as people pluck their choices from the masses and place them delicately into little wooden wagons. The same wooden wagon that his slim fingers are curled around the handle of.

 

Shame, he feels the bitter aftertaste of shame. And it tastes vaguely of chocolate chip and the curve of Betty’s ass in those jeans. Even the leftover crumbs clinging for dear life to the lapels of his jacket are silently mocking him for being so pathetic.

 

Pathetic might actually be too generous.

 

Bringing a resigned hand up to run through his hair, he feels something sharp prick his finger. A goddamn tiny golf pencil - a whittled down piece of wood that toddlers and privileged white males use to write with - catching on the wool of his beanie. It’s green and stands out against his olive skin that has inevitably paled a little with the weather change.

 

Betty grabbed it along with a complimentary handheld notebook to jot down their purchases on the way in. She shoved it into its now nestled location with an, “Awww look how precious you are Juggie,” which he _knew_ was meant to bait him, but _god_ if it didn’t make pink splotches color the tips of his ears anyway.

 

He hates it. Man he hates that tiny pencil. In fact, it’s everything he hates. But mostly he hates himself for _not_ hating it because of everything it represents. He wonders if anyone will miss it when he stuffs it in his pocket later to take home.

 

He’ll leave an extra $.50 in the check out box just in case.

  
  


 

 

 

 

“Jug?” Her voice, sweet and silky, but far away, cuts through the cold air like a dull knife. She sounds like she’s underwater, or maybe he’s underwater? It’s all very unclear since they left the truck.

 

Did she drug him? It’s not really Betty’s style, but maybe in some sort of pumpkin spice induced haze, she threw a few of Alice’s oval blue pills into the cookie mixture?  
  
Yeah, come to think of it, he feels a little…weird. Light headed, maybe? Warm? Like a plush blanket’s swaddling him from the inside out or sun-warmed honey is flowing through his veins despite the chilly autumn air dusting its way across exposed skin.

 

“Juggie?” Betty repeats again when he doesn’t answer.  This time her voice is crystal clear, and it unfurls something pleasant in his stomach. He shakes his head to clear the fuzz collecting on his brain.

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“I said what about this one?”

 

Jughead hears the excitement coloring her voice as she half-yells/half-squeals the question from behind several hay bales stacked into a pyramid.

 

Pumpkins in all shapes, sizes, and colors - ones with warts, ones with a dusting of purple on pale orange skin, black ones, green ones, ones curled and twisted to resemble a serpent slithering through the grass - surround him, and it’s a little too overwhelming to concentrate on her question.   

 

 _“_ Which one?” He murmurs, vaguely distracted.

 

A scarecrow filled to the brim with straw is giving him a death stare to rival Vigo the Carpathian, and for some unknown reason, a shiver creeps up the notches of his spine. He almost anticipates a well-timed gust of wind to break out, a wave of ominous fog to weave in between the crops littering the ground. Give some sort of creepy overlay to this overtly charming daydream.

 

“ _This_ one, Juggie.” He denotes a hint of annoyance at his lack of attention as he nods in agreement although she can’t see him.

 

“Jug, this is it. This is the one.” Despite himself, can’t help the grin breaking out across his face.  

 

“You’re going to have to make better use of your pronouns, Betts. I don’t know what _one_ you’re referring to,” he calls out, half-teasing, eliciting a definitive yet dainty huff from the other side of the display.      

 

“Jughead Jones, can we _please_ keep the continued sarcasm to a minimum today? You’re going to _ruin_ pumpkin patch day for me.” Her voice is muffled but the unmistakable exasperation in her tone makes his lips twitch into a crooked smile as he rounds the bales.

 

For a split second he just breathes her in, crouched over a perfectly rounded pumpkin at least twice the size of every other article of harvest littering not only the Fall display, but the aisles and aisles surrounding them.

 

Betty Cooper _would_ pick the biggest challenge.

 

Stray hairs are escaping in wisps from her slicked back ponytail as her face contorts in concentration contemplating how best to maneuver the pumpkin into their green wagon.

 

It’s damn near the most adorable thing he’s ever seen, and not for the first time - _today_ \- his heart picks up its rhythm. He swallows thickly, and tries to abate the heat crawling up his neck.

 

“This bad boy is going to be my Everest,” she proclaims excitedly, patting its smooth rounded surface, as she looks up, eyes bulging with glee. Sinking his teeth into the flesh of his cheek to thwart the laughter bubbling up in his chest, he nods then watches as she throws her arms around the meatiest part of orange and heaves.

 

Her grunts force the chuckle from his lips.

 

“Ok, ok, John Henry. As much as I would _love_ to play Florence Nightingale to your inevitable slipped disc, here - just, let me.” He nudges her shoulder with his, shrugging out of his Sherpa jacket and throwing it over the side of the wagon. “Besides, you’ll get your sweater dirty.”

 

It’s a jab that he just can’t resist.

 

“First of all, the mocking of the holiday attire is not appreciated,” she gestures with a flourish toward her black sweater. The words ‘ _I’m with Creepy’_ with a skeleton hand underneath pointing to the right flash up at him in dripping script.

 

“And secondly, you’re one to talk.” She faux-huffs, crossing her arms across her chest.

 

This earns a scoff from him as his eyebrows shoot upward toward the edge of his grey beanie.

 

“ _Excuse_ me? You’re _really_ going there? We’re going there? Ok. Ok.”

 

“Uhhnmm _you_ put the shirt on Juggie. I didn’t force it on you.”

 

“You’re being serious right now? You’re saying I picked this shirt out on my own, absolutely no outward influence? Just decided today was the day that I wanted to wear something like this? No, No-“

 

“ _this_ -” He points to his black t-shirt with the mirroring style stating, ‘ _I’m Creepy’_ accompanied by a skeleton waving against a midnight canvas, “is the illegitimate love child of bribery and guilt, plain and simple. And lest we forget it was most certainly _not_ of my own volition.”

 

Batting his eyes, he mimics the blonde with a pleading expression and a breathy voice, “ _Pleeeeeeaase Juggie. You’ll love it. Not to mention I slaved over a hot stove baking these chocolate chip cookies for you.”_

 

“How was I supposed to no to that face?”

 

He says the last comment so flippantly he barely realizes what he’s said until it’s too late. Panic sets in.

 

“I didn’t- that’s not what-“

 

They both stand there silent, eyes flickering between each other as they try to avoid the words that just came to a head.

 

“Let’s just get this monstrosity home for you to carve, ok?”

 

Rolling up his sleeves, he bends over and lifts with his knees, taking the utmost care not to get dirt on his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! The next chapter will be up sometime this weekend. Find me on Tumblr @alisoncollis


	3. Candied Apples and Corn Mazes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this one turned into a bit bigger chapter than the other two. It kind of exploded and got away from me. This isn't exactly where I wanted it to go, but I'm pretty happy with how the chapter turned out. I've written a bit more after this, but if I can't get it out before Halloween, then people may not be interested in reading it. ANYWAY. Please, please, please comment and let me know what you think. 
> 
> Find me @alisoncollis on Tumblr. I have a few ideas in the works and need someone to bounce them off of. I don't bite...unless you have candy.
> 
> OH! Forewarning, this is super unbeta'd, so there are likely TONS of mistakes. If you want no mistakes, hire me an editor or pay for my higher, higher education.

 

 

**10/15**

 

**10:30 am**

 

Jughead thought it would be disgusting, the taste of his own foot in his mouth; but surprisingly, _it’s not that bad._

 

Betty (thankfully) breezes right over his comment with the grace of a Cooper woman, both tactfully and unassuming. Either from the manners chiseled into her very DNA or to spare his feelings, he’s not entirely sure which _,_ she mercifully stays silent and thanks him delicately for loading up their steroid-infused pumpkin.

 

Handing him back his jacket, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and he tries (unsuccessfully) to ignore the subtle hints of coconut-vanilla shampoo in the air as she bends over next to him to gently pat their bright orange bounty.

 

“She’s a thing of beauty, Jug,” Betty notes with a sense of pride curling off her tongue.

 

“Yeah-“ his adam’s apple bobs as his gaze shifts from the pumpkin to Betty, who’s pulling out the handheld notebook and looking around for the tiny golf pencil (that’s still nestled behind the crook of his ear) to jot down their purchase. “She is.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being here has its drawbacks.

 

The sun is alarmingly bright, so bright that he has to squint to shield his eyes from its imposing rays, and the ground below his feet is damp. Everything smells like dirt and wet grass; Droplets of water are seeping through his socks in between the tight knit fabric, cold and unforgiving against the skin of his ankles.

 

That aside, Sweetwater Pumpkin Patch, Jughead decides, is actually not _as horrible_ as he initially thought _._

 

He’d never openly admit that of course, but it has its positive attributes. For one, an older lady with salt and pepper hair pulled back into a tight bun is selling homemade candied apples from a makeshift booth that resembles a child’s lemonade stand. She’s warm in a way that reminds him of what a grandmother should be like, but _just_ creepy enough to _possibly_ be mistaken for the antagonist in a Grimm’s fairy tale.

 

_Yeah, this place is ok._

 

“Two please.” He raises two fingers as if her being old somehow correlates to her being hard of hearing, and reaches in his back pocket to pull out his wallet, mentally calculating if he has enough for both the pumpkin, snacks, and food at Pop’s for the remainder of the week. Luckily, he gets paid from the Twilight every Friday, and being poor has taught him more lessons in frugality than any finance class Riverdale High can throw his way, So swinging it just this once shouldn’t be a problem. 

 

At the same time Betty reaches in her jeans, producing a crisp twenty, and he decides in an act of chivalry (and maybe a little bit dated sexism) that if this _is,_ by some miracle, something resembling a date, no _way_ he’s going to let her pay.

 

“Hey, hey. Put that away. You’re money’s no good here, Cooper.” It feels very _adult_ , saying those words as he pushes down her perfectly folded cash. Also very _primal_ , in the way that paying for _his date (_ not that Betty is in any shape, form, or fashion _his_ or anyone else’s) gives him a sense of masculine pride. Something, he can say with absolute certainty, he has not had a lot of in his life.

 

“No, Jug. Seriously, I dragged you here under the pretense of a good time and now I’m making you pay? No, no-“ she shakes her head back and forth to fully reinforce her point. “-that’s not fair.”

 

“Yeah, well. You know that they say- life isn’t fair. It’s just fairer than death. That’s all.”

 

Pulling out a few crumpled dollars, Jughead smoothes them out on between his thumb and forefinger.

 

“No one says that,” she utters flatly.

 

“One person said that. And I’m very disappointed in you for not catching the reference.” He volleys, tapping his nose once with his finger.

 

His words linger for a beat as they stand there in an dance that no one really cares for, and he composes himself enough to be serious for a split second.

 

“All jokes aside, please let me do this Betty. I- I want to do this,” he says, shifting awkwardly, feeling like he’ll be an emasculated piece of garbage if he actually concedes and lets her pay.

 

She examines his face earnestly, considering her chances of winning this, and lets out a sigh.

 

“ _Fiiine._ But only if we compromise. You pick 2 flavors that you want, and we’ll share,”

 

“Hmmm, say that again slowly and look deep into my eyes when you say it.”

 

Betty rolls her eyes and pushes a weak shove against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous. Just shut up and pick 2.”

 

He grins and turns his head to the hand drawn chalkboard of options. “Hmm. Decisions, decisions-” the old lady apple proprietor and Betty exchange a look of pure exhaustion. Out of his peripherals he sees the blonde next to him mouth _‘I’m so sorry’_ to the woman. She shakes her head as if to say, ‘It’s fine dear.’

   

“How about caramel/chopped nuts and chocolate drizzle. Both traditional and solid choices.”

 

Nodding resolutely, Jughead hands over a few bills, feeling like the day is picking up more and more. Betty takes one of the apples and hands him the other, making careful work not to lose any of the toppings as she places a napkin underneath it.

 

“Don’t get too attached to that apple by the way. Half of it’s mine.” He tells her teasingly, letting the levity of day soak into his pores with the sunshine.

  


 

 

 

 

They find a strategically placed hay bale nearby, one meant to add to the _Fall ambiance_ he’s sure, and park big bertha. They sit side by side, knees grazing each other and look out over the dotted specks of families and couples forgoing lesser-priced supermarket pumpkins in favor of trendy pumpkin patch pumpkins.

 

It doesn’t dig under his skin as much as he thought it would. _It’s nice._ A far cry from the Southside undertow that drowns its residents in poverty and cynicism. It’s a pleasant change.

 

People are laughing - children and adults alike. Not in the annoying way a studio might add a cackling laugh track in the background of a tv show, no. In a comforting way - a light murmur akin to a sea of crickets filtering through a bedroom window on a warm summer’s evening, creating music with the breeze.   

 

Jughead likes the calming domesticity of it all.

      

 

Lost in his own thoughts, he misses Betty twisting and picking a few nuts from his apple, tossing them into her mouth. He throws a few half-hearted swats, which she dodges, then bites heartily into her candy-covered treat. “ _Hey.”_

 

“What?” She asks around a mouthful of caramel, nuts, and fruit. It should be a unattractive, but somehow even talking with her mouthful Betty pulls off with adorableness. “Double-standards are an unflattering look on you Jug.”

 

He snorts at that and tugs at the hem of his top. “Well thank god I have such an attractive shirt on to mask such hideousness.”

 

“ _Hey_ , I resemble that remark.” He turns to look at her as she feigns offense, bringing the hand that’s not wrapped around the popsicle stick to her chest.

 

“Well look at little miss Nancy Drew spouting off The Three Stooges’ malapropisms,” Jughead nods with his mouth scrunched up to indicate he’s impressed.  

 

“Hardy har. You’re not the only cinefile or TV buff in Riverdale, I’ll have you know.”

 

“Is that so?” He cracks a half-smile and swoops down to take a bite from the apple she’s holding midway between her chest and her mouth.

 

She sighs and her brow creases. “You couldn’t just _ask_ for a bite? Do you have no shame Jughead Jones?”

 

“Not any that I’m aware of. And not to alarm you, but I think I see a rite of passage in the shape of a corn maze over there.” Jughead nudges her shoulder and points with one of his eyes squinted toward a field of corn stalks to their right. “Eat up. We have to inhale every last bit of fun this place has to offer before my sugar high wears off and I turn back into sullen teenager.” Patting her knee, he takes another bite of his apple and wraps the rest in a napkin.

 

“ _As you wish.”_ Betty winks, and before he has a chance to respond, she leans over and wipes a smudge of chocolate off the corner of his mouth.

 

An ache tugs deep in his chest.

 

 _God_ he loves this girl.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

As it turns out, a corn maze isn’t as exhilarating as the one might be led to believe. Luckily they left their wagon at the entrance, so he doesn’t have to wheel a squeaky, loaded down cart over dust mounds and divots. Not so luckily, they are still in a corn maze; stuck somewhere that they hope is at least halfway to the end, but have absolutely no way of knowing for sure.

 

They’re lost - about half an hour in. The high from the candied apples is starting to wear off and shift into something resembling the beginnings of a sugar coma. He needs caffeine. Or a nap. Or more candy. Preferably options 1 or 3.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the slightest crinkle of Betty’s nose as she contorts her face into a frown. Turning her head right and left at their crossroads, she swallows and lets out a huff. “I can’t _believe_ I can’t figure this out,” she whispers under her breath.

 

“You know, we haven’t seen anyone else in here in a while. Do you maybe want to get on my shoulders? Or better yet, we can just make a break for it straight through the corn stalks.”

 

She levels him with a mildly frustrated _look_. Flashes of Alice Cooper Invade his mind and he almost cringes.

 

“That’s _cheating._ Also, _children_ make it through this, Jug. _Children_.” The last word enunciated so severely, it’s borderline maniacal.

 

“Technically, _we’re_ children.” He points out earnestly.

 

“We’re _sixteen_. And I swear to god if you make a Children of the Corn joke right now, Forsythe-“

 

He holds up his hands in surrender, eyes wide, “hey, hey. It was just a suggestion. And I wasn’t even thinking-“ Cutting him off with a glare that says _‘really_ ,’ she crosses her arms over her chest. “Ok, I was _thinking_ it, but I wasn’t going to _say_ it.”

 

Betty closes her eyes and tilts her head back, taking a deep inhale to seemingly calm herself down. She’s really upset by this.

 

The whole situation is a tad ridiculous.

 

     

If it were anyone else, he would snort or make a sarcastic comment to cut the tension. Maybe roll his eyes at the childishness of getting so worked up over something as juvenile as getting lost in a _corn maze_ . But right now, he knows better. He _knows_ Betty Cooper, and he knows how tightly wound she can get over the smallest of bumps in the road.

 

She can be a touch dramatic sometimes, but he wouldn’t _dare_ point it out.

 

Jughead shoves his hands into his pockets, twiddling the lining of his jacket between his fingers as he waits for her moment to pass.

 

At least she lets him see this side of her. The side that releases her frustration into the world instead of bottling it up like a caged animal, struggling for freedom. For that he feels privileged as much as he feels uncomfortable.

 

She’s stands frozen in her own little world, breathing in the fresh air heavily and releasing the sweetness back out to the surrounding crops. The sun frames the angles of her face, chin slightly lifted toward the sky. Even in irritation, it’s all he can do not to reach out and trace her. A lump gets caught in his throat as wisps of hair escape from her ponytail whipping back and forth, tickling the polished skin of her neck.

 

She looks beautiful despite her anger, and he gets so caught up in just _looking_ at her, that he forgets to breathe.  

 

“We can do this. It’s just a stupid maze,” she says quietly to herself, opening her eyes and turning to look at him.

 

Catching him off guard, he just stands there for a second - Converse firmly planted into the dusty ground– blinking rapidly in the static air, before gathering his wits, clearing his thoughts.

 

He takes a hesitant step toward her.

 

“Thank _god_ you finally said it. This is the stupidest maze I’ve ever been in.”

 

She looks over at him and smiles, some of the stress draining from her body.

 

“Jug-“

 

Jughead grins. “It’s idiotic-“ he stands in front of her, reaching down to grab her hand.

 

Still grinning, he says, “Some might say-“ he threads their fingers together. The warmth of her hand slices through the cold air.

 

“ _Inconceivable_?” she contributes.

 

He pulls her into a tight hug, tucking her head under his chin. “Elizabeth Cooper, you have spent entirely too much time in here. You’re starting to sound like me.”

 

Betty grumbles into his shirt, something like relief in the tone of her voice, “we can’t have that, now can we?”

 

“Hey Betts?”

 

“Hm?” She mumbles, and he can feel the warmth of her breath through the thin material of his top.

 

“I really like my shirt.”

 

Jughead feels her smile widen against his chest before she leans back to look up at him. “Now I _know_ we’ve been in here too long. You’ve gone delirious.” She makes a faux-show of checking his temperature with the back of her hand on his forehead, their proximity dawning on him. He clears his throat, extremely nervous all of a sudden.

 

“Come on Magellan. Let’s get you out of here.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Numerous turns and 20 minutes later (seriously, who cut this thing?), they emerge victorious from the depths of 10,000 bags of pre-harvested Green Giant. ( _Ballpark figure.)_

 

Betty held on to his hand for the duration of the maze. And if she noticed the dampness of his palm or the slight tremble of his fingers, she was kind enough not to say anything.

 

Entirely spent, they gather their cart (which given the amount of time they spent actually _in_ the maze, was not too far of a distance back to the beginning) and meander around aimlessly to regenerate some harvest pep back into their step.

 

She releases his hand to pull her ponytail tighter, a habit he’s notices she does when trying to regain control of a situation. They walk, one of his hands on the handle of their cart, the other shoved in his jacket pocket both for warmth and lack of having it hang uselessly at his side; ‘The Great Pumpkin’ as Betty coined it, rolling its fat little body around in their quaint, Rockwellian-esque wagon.

 

She plucks a few _3 for a dollar_ Jack be littles from a basket tied to a tree and spews off facts about all the various types of ornamental squash on the ground.

 

Her knowledge off all things _vegetable_ makes him think either she paid way too much attention in Ms. Finnel’s Biology class last year, or she reads about it in her spare time.  Which is either sad or impressive. He decides it’s a little bit of both, and nods along with interest (nerves finally having calmed down to a normal lull), like she’s cracking some invaluable eggs of knowledge on how best to defeat Shang Tsung in the Boss battle of _Mortal Kombat._   

 

Every so often he mumbles a, “what about this one?” just to prove he’s mildly invested in the myriad of harvest (and not the least bit thinking about the remainder of his caramel apple) and points to some obscure looking gourd on the ground, gnarled up and pathetic. She wastes no time answering (very thoroughly) in a tone he can only describe as a chirp. He honestly doesn’t give a shit, but after the maze debacle, he lets her have this.

 

Jughead notices her hands are twitching and her fingers are curling in and out in a way that indicates she’s nervous. She wipes her hands on her pant leg and it makes his stomach flip.

 

He chances a brief glance over at her face as she’s telling him that fairy tale pumpkins are botanically classified as _Cucurbita moschata_ and watches as her mouth moves faster than usual. _A lot faster._ She’s rambling. She’s rambling because she’s _nervous._ She’s rambling because _he_ made her nervous.

 

It somehow has the opposite effect on him (the opposite of how _he_ felt not too long ago), seeing her like this. And a calm washes over him, trickling down his back, filling his veins with liquid courage.

 

“Betty-“ he cuts her off with a voice that’s meant to be soft.

 

“Hm?”

 

She doesn’t look at him right away, still fidgeting, with eyes boring into what he now knows to be called a _Farmer’s Mark Light Orange_ pumpkin; so he repeats himself. “Betty.”

 

“Hmm what?” She whips her head around, causing a few strands of blonde to get caught in the pale pink gloss on her lips.

 

A thousand scenarios of how this plays out rifles in and out of his brain. Brief flashes of him making an ass out of himself and her pushing him away invade his thoughts. That’s most likely how this ends up, but _fuck it._

 

While the last thing he wants to do is make her uncomfortable in any way, she’s looking at him with those huge green eyes that seem infinitely brighter in the natural light as opposed to the dim shadows of his trailer, and the overwhelming desire to kiss her strikes him again and again like cracks of lightning in an electrical storm.

 

Briefly, he wonders if it’s the most cliché thing in the world to have your first kiss in a pumpkin patch with a girl you’ve been in love with since the sandbox. But then he decides, for the first time in his life, that being cliché might not be the _worst_ thing.   

 

He holds her gaze for way longer than is necessary and reaches up to brush the wayward strands clinging to her mouth away.

 

“Jug-“

 

Betty says his name with a tremble, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it. She’s just as nervous as he is. _This is his chance._ Eyes flitting to her lips, he brushes his tongue across his own, wetting them.

 

“I-“

 

The thrum of his heartbeat is so loud in his ears, he can swear she hears it too. He slips a hand on the base of her neck, twirling a finger around a few of her baby fine hairs.

 

“Can I-”

 

He doesn’t fully get the question out before she rushes forward, pushing her lips against his. A soft sigh escapes her throat as her lips part and he’s fairly certain that if she wasn’t clutching the lapels of his jacket, holding him up, that he very well might splinter apart and topple to the ground.

 

She tastes like caramel and chocolate, and as her tongue brushes against his, he melts into her. A dizzying rush swirls around in his head, and he’s smiling so wide now, he’s pretty sure they aren’t even kissing at all anymore, just pressing teeth and mouths together.

 

One of his hands slides down to the dip of her waist and the other finds one of hers, tangling together at his side. At the precise moment that he decides life can not _possibly_ get any better, his stomach growls loud enough to be impossible to pass off as anything other than what it is. Betty giggles into his mouth, and despite his cursed embarrassment, he can’t help to chuckle too.

 

“I can’t help it. You taste _really_ good.” He says against her mouth.

 

They pull apart and with the soft look she’s giving him, he goes in for another quick, feather-light kiss to her lips, then one to the tip of her nose. He feels her sigh in complete contentedness.

 

“Come on beanie boy, let’s get you some sustenance before you wilt away into nothingness.” Betty slaps a limp-wrist backhand against his stomach and turns to walk away.

 

“Hey Betts?”

 

“Yeah?” She turns to look at him over her shoulder.

 

“Can you tell me all about the different kinds of pumpkins again? It’s insanely hot. I could hardly contain myself back there.”

 

She laughs and lets out an exaggerated, _‘shut up’ -_ rolling her tongue over the ‘u’s’ in extension’. “You liked it.”

 

“Eh-“

 

He shrugs then throws an easy arm around her shoulder, grabbing the handle to their cart in the other as they make their way up to pay.

 

 _Yeah,_ Sweetwater Pumpkin Patch isn’t that bad at all.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL? Was it so sickly sweet, you couldn't stand it? Please drop me a comment below, even if it's just a flailing emoji. I LOVE those! Happy Fall everyone! Let me know if you are interested in seeing the rest or if I should just leave it wrapped up here. xoxo Gossip Girl.


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